


Like Strangers

by Habur



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Depression, Friendship, Healing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24279919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habur/pseuds/Habur
Summary: Achilles is teetering on the edge. Caught in a whirlwind of his own grief, he struggles to step back into the real world. While staying at his father's villa, he meets Patroclus. Together, they take off on the small stepping stones towards letting go.
Relationships: Achilles/Hector (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

_Smells bad here_ , he thinks as he finds his seat. The seats smell musty. Sweat and mildew, the scent of people long gone. It’s an old train, and clearly has gotten some use over the decades. He feels that sense of irony again. Irony laced with bitterness. This is his life now. 

_Can’t even drive a fucking car_. It’s his own fault. He went too far the last time. 

He remembers his mother screaming at him over the phone, then screaming again when she came to pick him up from the police station. How her voice just blended into the background, he had gotten so good at it. So good at tuning her out, because he didn’t want to hear. If he could plug his ears with wax, like those guys in that one story, the one with the ship and the long voyage home…

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want stories. He’s sick of them. His own has gone crashing and burning. 

The train makes a rickety sound as it moves, the announcement sounding out on the speakers that their next stop is … so and so. He doesn’t care. He’s getting off at the last stop, and he can’t help the betrayal he feels in his gut at the thought. 

All these years, and his mother never thought to tell him. She was waiting for this. Waiting for him to sink to his lowest, before she reopened the old wounds and twisted the knife that had already been in him, since he was a boy. He hated her then. She had given him a place to sleep, had held him when he cried; and he hated her. 

He sighs as he sinks back into his chair, looking out the window but not really seeing. An old man comes up and takes the seat opposite him, gives a crooked smile. He ignores it. Trees start to pass by in a blur, he’s leaving the city. The city he once loved, the life he once had. 

He has nothing now. 

Nothing but what is waiting for him, once he gets off at the last stop.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you coming or not?” asks the grumpy old man in the front seat, spitting out the window. It’s bits of chewed tobacco, Achilles grimaces at the sight. 

“Typical. He couldn’t even come get me himself,” Achilles replies, his tone acid. 

The man just glares at him, Achilles glares back. He’s learned not to trust friends of his father, they’re just as bad.

“Get in,” the old man says, and waits. Achilles looks around, at the deserted station, the run-down buildings surrounding it. He wishes he’d gotten off at a different stop now. A place where he could disappear, and his mother would never find him. He can still do it now. Just turn around and walk away. He doubts this old codger will chase after him. 

“Not thinking of running away, are you?” The old man reaches a hand out the window and points downwards.  
“Wheels.”  
He points at Achilles’ lower half.  
“Legs.”  
After a pause, he says, “Wanna bet which one will win?” 

Achilles swears under his breath as he gets into the car. The old man turns on the radio, it’s some local news station. And swing music. He feels nauseous already.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They drive in silence, and he doesn’t think the old man will try to make conversation. He’s wrong. About ten minutes in, the son of a bitch glances at him and says, “You haven’t asked me my name.”

Achilles wants to ignore him, but those beady eyes keep looking at him sideways.   
“ … What’s your name?”

“There we go! Looks like you’re not completely hopeless, then. It’s Nestor.”

Achilles starts to grumble in irritation. 

“Piece of work, aren’t you? I’m curious what your old man has to say.”

The last thing Achilles wants to hear about is his father.   
“He doesn’t get to say shit. He gave up that right a long time ago.”  
He means it to come out low and insulting, but it just sounds … small. Sad and small. 

Nestor shakes his head and doesn’t comment.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Scenes of small town life happen by as they drive past, all the way to the edge of the town, where the green gets thicker. He thinks about how much he hates the color green. Then he stops, because thinking about how much he hates green makes him think about how much someone else loved it, and no. He’s not going there. 

Nestor keeps the windows all the way down, so there are smells. All sorts. Clean, fresh air, mostly. Gasoline. Dirt. They overpower his senses, and he wants to go inside. Wants to curl up in a clean white bed, where he doesn’t have to smell anything, see anything, hear anything. He wants to fall asleep, dreamless, and never have to wake up to face another day of this.

It’s one of the reasons his mother wanted him out. She couldn’t accept his new existence, needed him to be the way he was before. Still does. She thinks that getting away, and staying here with his father will change things. He snorts when he thinks of it.

Nestor gives him an odd look. “Something funny?”

He doesn’t reply. The few words he’s already gotten out at Nestor have drained him. He feels like sand at the bottom of a well, dried out, nothing left to give. He’s been feeling like that a lot lately, like he forgets how to speak. 

They pull up in front of a large villa. There aren’t any other houses around. Achilles studies it, feeling grimmer with every second that passes. He doesn’t want to get out of the car now. He sees the front door open, a man hesitating in the doorway before walking out. Feels the low burn of old hatred resurfacing. 

Nestor turns off the engine and beckons for him to get out. He does, slowly, sluggishly, and takes his luggage with him. 

“That all you got?” Nestor points at the one duffel bag he slings over his shoulder. 

Achilles starts to retort, but his voice dies as he sees his father coming up to them. He nods instead. He got rid of most of his stuff when he had to move in with his mother. 

He thought he was ready for this. Turns out he’s not. There’s no amount of ready that can make this feel right. Looking at his father’s face; lined, aged, yet … too much the same. It makes the air in his lungs thicken. He’s gone years and years without feeling like a helpless boy anymore, now he doesn’t even know. Whatever demons are inside him laugh, they mock him, for being so weak.

“Achilles,” his father greets. Looks him up and down. Doesn’t seem too happy.

_Hi, dad. Hello, pops. How’s it going, old man? Fuck you, Peleus._

He doesn’t say any of that. What do you say to a stranger, who was once your whole world? 

The silence gets too much, and Nestor coughs to interrupt.   
“Here, I’ll take your bag upstairs.” 

He goes, and they’re left facing each other. 

“So?” his father asks gruffly.   
“Came all the way here and you’re not even going to speak to me?” 

He looks at his father, then at the villa.   
“We both know why I’m here. I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine.”

His father gives a little scoff then, and shakes his head.  
“It doesn’t work that way, Achilles. I spoke with your mother. She was very insistent … about how things are going to be when you’re here.”

_I bet._

It’s a large house. He forgets how lavishly they used to live, before his father left. His mother still likes to pretend they can afford to live that way. His eyes roam over the area, and it’s back again. That bitterness, a slight twinge in his core that whispers at him, tells him he’s let go of nothing. 

His father is waiting, and he replies, “And how exactly are things going to be?”

His father doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he turns, beckoning at Achilles to follow him back into the house.

“I’ll show you where your room is. Then you’ll come down for dinner.” 

He wasn’t expecting that. They never had dinner together, even when it was still the three of them. He follows his father into the main entrance, through the foyer. It’s an impressive house. He knows his father owns businesses, but this … He was never the business-y type himself. Couldn’t even make it through university. His mother had never liked it that he made his living at a bar, but when he lost that job too … that was the last straw. It was a lot of little things, but that - that was when she picked up the phone and called his father. 

His room is the second one from the stairs, when they go up to the first floor. His duffel bag is on the window seat near the bed. 

“Get settled. I’ll show you around later. Dinner is at seven.” His father leaves, and he feels relief flood in. Now he has what he wants, a place where he can be alone. There’s an emptiness in him once more, a hollowness that he forgot about when his father brought him rage and bitterness again - but it’s back, and he welcomes it.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
He doesn’t know why he brought them. He should throw them out, even though he did promise his mother he would take them. He shakes the bottle, watches the little green pills swivel around. Pops open the cap, pours one out. Stares at it, in his hand. They make him feel wrong. No, they make him feel like himself again. And he doesn’t want it. Can’t have it. It’s magic and it’s poison. It’s a little too much poison in too little magic. 

He puts it in his mouth, feels it against his tongue. _So close_. He could go down to dinner and be civil with his father every night. It would just take a few weeks. But it’s wrong, somehow. He takes the pill out of his mouth and throws it in the wastebasket in the corner. 

They used to make him sick, the pills. _Medicine_. His mother calls them medicine, like he has a cold and they’ll make him get better. Only they won’t. They’re more like a bandage. He’s bleeding, and the bandage stops the flow of blood for a little while. Then he bleeds again, and he needs another bandage. It’s never-ending, and it makes him feel dirty on the inside. 

He looks at the bottle some more, and places it carefully in his nightstand drawer. 

He needs some air now. From his bedroom window he can see there’s a vegetable patch, in what looks like a yard. He goes downstairs to find it. There are barely any vegetables, just some sad-looking tomatoes. He leans against the wall and takes a breath, not knowing what he’s looking for. 

He thinks he’s alone, but a second later he realizes there’s someone there. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a man his age staring despondently at the tomatoes. The man sees him looking, and shrugs.

“I don’t know what I did. They used to look so good,” he says.

Achilles raises an eyebrow. “The … tomatoes?” he asks, unable to believe he’s having this conversation. 

The man turns towards him properly. He’s pretty, Achilles can’t help thinking.  
All sunkissed skin and freckles, big eyes and long lashes. Achilles turns away. He doesn’t feel like looking at pretty things. 

“The best tomatoes,” the stranger replies. “Onions, carrots, and potatoes too. I got quite … obsessed with growing vegetables, at one point.”

Achilles shrugs.

“Do you garden?” the stranger presses.

“... Can’t think of anything I’d like to do less,” Achilles replies, rudely.   
He starts to feel bad when there’s a silence. 

Then the other man laughs, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Achilles finds himself looking, tries to stop, but can’t. 

“I like your honesty,” the man says. “It isn’t for everyone.”

“My honesty isn’t for everyone, no.” Achilles agrees.

“ _Gardening_ isn’t for everyone,” the stranger corrects him. He grins again, and the sunlight catches in his hair. 

“I’m Pat,” he adds. “Patroclus, but everyone calls me Pat.”

“Patroclus who’s obsessed with vegetables,” Achilles remarks. “I’ll keep that in mind.” For some reason he feels like _smiling back_ , but he doesn’t. Patroclus must think him a stuck-up asshole, but doesn’t show it. 

He looks out at the setting sun, and thinks he should actually get to dinner. He was thinking about skipping, but maybe … it would make his life easier not to anger his father on purpose. He’s not a twelve-year-old. If showing up at dinner will shut the old man up, he can do that. 

He’s about to tell Patroclus that he’s heading off, but there’s no one there anymore when he turns around. Well, maybe he did scare him away after all. He tends to do that to people, these days.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sounds of clinking plates and glasses are distracting. He tries to focus, barely tasting the fish that’s been served for dinner. They eat in silence, at first. Neither seem to want or know how to start a conversation with each other. His father looks at him, and Achilles avoids his eyes. Achilles looks at his father, who avoids his eyes too. It’s a game of tag. 

One look - tag, you’re it!   
Eyes darting quickly away.  
Another look - tag, now _you’re_ it! 

Achilles amuses himself thinking of this, until his father clears his throat. He’s going to start asking questions. 

“Your mother tells me you lost your job.” Not a good start. 

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” Achilles replies.

A withering look. “She says you couldn’t afford to pay her rent.”  
“... Again. I don’t see -”

“I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this, Achilles. Do you think I want to have this conversation any more than you do? One night, I get a phone call, and it’s your mother whom I haven’t spoken to for more than ten years. Shall I continue with what she told me or would you like to move on so we can discuss this job situation?”

He pauses, and hesitates. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” he replies, eventually.   
“It wasn’t _completely_ my fault,” he corrects, at the doubtful look thrown at him. 

“... I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But if you’re going to stay here, you need to be doing something.”

“You had me come all the way here so you could tell me to get a job?” Disbelief. His mother is unbelievable. 

“That’s not what I asked!” his father snaps. Then calms down, looking regretful.   
“I … I understand you’re not in the best place right now.”

Achilles scoffs.

“Your mother had many things to say, but I think we should do this one thing at a time. I’m not trying to push you, Achilles. But if I allow you to stay here, in your room all day, with nothing to keep you occupied - well, that’s no good, is it?”

“I’m not a child,” Achilles retorts, but there’s no heat in it. 

“It’s a big house. There’s a lot of things that need doing. Cleaning, fixing. Tell me one thing you can do, and we’ll go from there.” 

He’s about to reply that he’s not here as some sort of servant, that if that’s what his father has brought him here for, he can shove a number of creatively shaped objects up his ass - but the look his father gives him, sheepish yet firm - it isn’t like any look he’s seen from the man before.   
His father knows. Knows about everything that happened, these past few years, and is choosing not to say anything. Choosing to give him some privacy and respect. He doesn’t know what to make of that; some begrudging gratitude escapes him then. 

“Tomatoes,” he blurts out. 

His father raises an eyebrow. 

“I’ll grow tomatoes.” 

His father thinks for a moment, then nods. “That’s something,” he agrees. 

Achilles wants to know what he meant by “we’ll go from there.” He can imagine it’s what his mother wants to happen. More visits with a shrink, more medicine, group therapy, god forbid. His father doesn’t seem to want to rush things, though. 

A thought comes to mind, and he looks around the room. He’s going to have to look in the kitchen, later. No drinks in sight, apart from water. She has gotten to his father, in this way. He bites his lip, both amusement and frustration rising in him. He wonders which one she told his father about, the first or second crash. Both, most likely. 

He hasn’t been drinking, not for nearly a year. The last time he crashed his car - it really was a mistake. A lapse in judgment. He’d thought he could handle it, and just kept taking more and more, because the numbness felt good. He’d felt almost like he wasn’t himself anymore, didn’t have to be, and it was freeing. 

He didn’t kill anyone, but he hasn’t touched a drop since then. He knows it’s bad. Of all the things he refuses to do, this one - this one he will, because he understands the ugliness of it. Can’t face himself in the mirror once he’s given in. The fact that his father has hidden all the booze doesn’t help, though. He knows he doesn’t deserve trust - but it still stings.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s staring at the soil, imagining in his head he can conjure seedlings to grow into big, fat vines, bearing juicy red fruit. He can hear voices from the house - whichever staff in his father’s employ, their voices carrying through the walls. A part of him shrivels inside as each word rings in his ear. He doesn’t know what it is, nowadays. It’s like he can’t face the world, the very thought of encountering another human makes him feel shaky and withered and small. A nervous ball of energy bubbles in his gut, one day he’s a black cloud, the others it’s this. 

There is one person he thinks he could see. He doesn’t realize he’s been waiting, but come to think of it, every moment that passes he imagines those freckles and eyes emerging from around the corner. 

He’s gotten whatever gardening supplies he can find from the toolshed, empty pots and seeds and water. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Is his father going to track his progress? The sun is shining right in his face and he wishes he brought a hat. He looks at the few tomatoes growing in the patch, in all their miserable glory, and almost laughs.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_“Told you to just get a pizza,” he grumbles, surveying the spread, it might as well have been a banquet. Two glasses of wine, lit candles, and dishes of what must have taken a whole afternoon to prepare._

_Hector chuckles and nudges at him to sit down.  
“Can’t you admit this is better than a pizza?”_

_He looks at the other man, at the dinner. The smile comes before he can control it. “I’m just saying,” he replies.  
“We can eat off cardboard. Less dishes to clean up, that’s the dream.”_

_Hector doesn’t say anything, just meets his eyes, and for a moment he’s stuck. He can’t move, can’t blink. He’s sitting in front of the man who’s spent an afternoon making him dinner, who looks at him like he can and will be loved - it’s never been this good. It’s warm, it’s comfortable. It’s home._

_“As much as I like to make your dreams come true, we’re going to have to save the cardboard for another day. You see, I’m not planning on asking you to marry me without a proper dinner set and silverware.”_

_He thinks his insides might as well be marble, the way he freezes, statue-still._

_They’ve talked about it. But … now? This can’t be happening._

_Hector’s smirk grows wider and wider as the silence continues. “Speechless, huh? Didn’t think I’d ever accomplish that.”_

_Achilles gets up from his chair and throws himself onto Hector’s lap.  
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!” he gasps, grabbing onto him, wanting to take hold of everything in this moment.   
He feels the warm rumble of Hector’s laugh, and his chest is full, his heart near-bursting._

_“If anything’s going to give you a heart attack, it’s this.” Hector takes a forkful of buttery steak and feeds it to him, still shaking with laughter._

_They sit like that, and Achilles curls up in Hector’s arms, feeling content. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Hector’s nose.  
“Are you sure?” he whispers._

_“Babe,” Hector says. “I’ve spoiled too much for you already. Don’t you want to see what else I’ve planned for tonight?”_

_“If it’s ‘I want you to marry me’ sex, you know I’m all for it,” says Achilles, and presses his mouth to Hector’s chest so he can feel that laugh again._

_“Umm, don’t you want to know if I’m going to say yes or not?” he adds._

_“You can tell me after,” Hector replies, his eyes twinkling because they both know what that answer is going to be. The room seems to glimmer, the air feels lighter, because this is their future. They’ve been building a home together, and now they have all the time in the world. They have each other, and it’s all they’ll ever need._   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“...fuck is a celebrity tomato?” he wonders aloud, peering at the dirt-stained packet in his hand. At this rate he’s tried his best. He’s gotten the seeds into little square pots. There’s soil all over the place, it looks like a toddler has done all the work. He sighs and gets up, examining the results. It will have to do, for now. 

“Don’t die before you’ve grown,” he tells his unborn tomatoes. Satisfied, he heads back towards the villa. 

It takes some looking, but he’s finally at the kitchen. He’s in desperate need for a cold drink. He’s just about to open the fridge when a middle-aged woman saunters in. She’s plump and greying, but her face is cheerful as anything. 

“Looking for something, sweetheart?” she asks in a bubbly voice.   
“If it’s lunch you want, I can have something ready for you in a few minutes.” 

“... I was just getting a drink,” Achilles replies. He wants to slink off to avoid further conversation, but the woman turns to study him properly.   
“You’re Peleus’ son,” she declares. 

He can barely manage a nod under her scrutinizing gaze. She sniffs. “Didn’t like the fish I made the other night, eh?”

Of course. Of course he has to offend even the cook in his father’s house. 

“It was fine. I just wasn’t hungry.”

She gives another little _harrumph_ sound, but lets it go. 

“Are you the only one working in the kitchen?” he asks, suddenly curious about his father’s employees. There seems to be so few of them, despite the size of the villa. 

“In the kitchen, yes, just me. There’s Sander, he runs my errands. You’ve met Nestor, he does odd jobs here and there. Always something needing fixing. And there are the maids, we used to have live-in maids but now they come and go whenever something needs cleaning.”

“What about a gardener? Is there a gardener around here?”

“We haven’t had a groundskeeper since old Phoenix retired, but once in a while there’s a boy who comes round and does some weeding and trimming.”  
She squints at him. “About your age.”

_That must be Patroclus_ , he thinks.   
“When does he, uh … come around? Every week?”

The cook shrugs. “Whenever the land needs tending. Peleus isn’t too bothered by it.”

So that’s that. He doesn’t think he’s going to get any more information. The house seems understaffed for such a large area. It’s a wonder his father even agreed to let him faff around with gardening when it’s clear there’s a lot more he could be doing.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s back on his knees in the soil, and he thinks he could get used to this vegetable patch. He’s learned to ignore the scents and odors, the feel of the soil between his fingers is almost soothing. He’s gotten a book from the villa’s main study, all about growing vegetables, and he realizes he’s going to have to start all over again because he didn’t use the right soil and he definitely doesn’t have the right equipment. 

“...So it seems you’ve taken my job.”

He whips around at the voice. It’s _him_.   
He doesn’t know what he was expecting, exactly. 

Patroclus is standing near the wall again, his hair falling into his face. 

“I...I thought you only came round here once in a while,” Achilles replies. 

Patroclus moves to stand closer to him, but he’s grinning.   
“You’re growing them from scratch. Brave.”

“... It was a dumb idea,” Achilles admits. “I forgot nurseries existed for a while there.” 

“No, no. Now we get to see the seedlings when they grow. It’s actually my favorite part.” 

He’s bending over the little pots now, and the light breeze carries his scent over to Achilles. He smells like clean laundry and sunshine; Achilles has to hold his breath before that scent starts to go to his head. What does he think he’s doing, _smelling_ complete strangers? 

“You have a favorite part of watching tomatoes grow?” Achilles can’t control his tone, and realizes he sounds rude again. 

Patroclus doesn’t notice, just glances at him with those dancing eyes of his.   
“I thought you didn’t garden.”

“ _Didn’t_ being the key word,” Achilles offers, then internally smacks himself because he _still_ sounds bristly, and he doesn’t want Patroclus to think he’s a complete miserable ass. 

Patroclus merely smirks at him, as though they’re sharing a joke.   
“Ah, I see I’ve rubbed off on you then.” 

“No, I just needed a new hobby. And we ran out of pasta sauce.”

This time Patroclus laughs, it’s a quiet kind of laugh, like a secret he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. 

“So … you could keep reading that book, or I could just tell you my tips and tricks.”

“Wow, the choice between a real published gardening book, or the advice of someone who let the tomatoes die. It’s going to be so hard to decide,” Achilles quips. A sense of disbelief takes over him, when was the last time he attempted at humor? He hasn’t felt like laughing in a long time. But he looks at Patroclus, at the way he grins; hears his quiet secret laugh, and wants to make it happen more and more. 

“Hey, I didn’t let the tomatoes die. For your information, they never looked better when I was in charge of them. You have some very big footsteps to fill, now that you seem to have appointed yourself Master of the Tomatoes,” Patroclus scolds, managing to look stern and mirthful at the same time. 

“That is a made-up role, and we both know it. Everybody knows the term is Lord of the Tomatoes,” Achilles counters. 

“LOTT,” Patroclus muses. He pauses and frowns. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Achilles,” he flushes. He’s been letting this total stranger wander his mind, and the man doesn’t even know his name. 

“Alright then Achilles, LOTT. You’re licensed and credentialed, now we must complete the final phase of your training.” 

“If I’m licensed and credentialed, doesn’t that mean I’ve finished all phases of training? How on earth did I get the license then?”

They carry on like this until Achilles has filled the vegetable patch with pots of tomato seeds. They agree to meet again the next day. 

Achilles returns to his room that night, and waits for the heavy emptiness to set again. For the first time in a long while, it doesn’t come.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The seedlings have grown. He’s kneeling over them, inspecting the leaves.   
Four. Four seedlings. Everything else died.   
He can hear Patroclus behind him, the sound of someone trying not to laugh. 

“Everything I touch turns to ashes,” Achilles groans. 

He turns to see Patroclus’ smiling face, and has to move back a little. They’re close, they’ve never been so near each other before. He finds himself wondering what Patroclus’ skin feels like, and bats the thought away. 

Patroclus doesn’t say anything, but Achilles knows from the look on his face, he has a dozen quips being left unsaid. 

“If I were a fish I would make a terrible parent. All my fish eggs would be deformed. What kind of fish only has four kids?” Achilles demands. 

Patroclus meets his eyes, bites his lip. And then he bursts into laughter. 

Honey, Achilles thinks. Everything about the other man is honey, from his skin to his eyes to his unkempt hair. Different shades of sweetness. It makes him think of bees, buzzing in his stomach and his head, swarming his thoughts. 

He gets up, suddenly. Tries to shake the fuzz out of his head. 

“I, uh … I should go.”

Patroclus stops laughing, and looks puzzled. “Where are you going?”

“I just … I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Same time?”

Patroclus studies him for a moment. “Yes. Same time, tomorrow.”   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He isn’t there. Achilles waits. A bee lands on his arm and he swats it off. It hovers up to his ear and stays in the air around his head. He waits some more. The sunlight starts to wane and he feels his heart sinking. Patroclus has probably picked up on his odd behavior. Decided he wants nothing to do with Achilles. 

_Oh well. What did you think you were doing, anyway? This isn’t you._ Achilles sighs and gets up before it starts to get dark. He doesn’t think he should avoid another dinner with his father, as much as the old man seems as relieved as he is when they don’t have to spend any more time together than they have to.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I see you’ve been doing some work in the yard,” his father observes, after half an hour of eating in silence. 

“I said I would,” Achilles grumbles. He pokes at his food, but then remembers the cook noticing how he didn’t finish his dinner that first night. He forces himself to take a bite. 

“I wonder if you could do some other small jobs too? If it’s gardening you like, there’s some weeding to be done, and the hedges need trimming. I’m afraid no one really has time to look after the grounds.” 

Achilles nods without looking at his father. Patroclus is only around for short amounts of time, it seems. He probably lives in town and comes by when he needs the money. Besides, he doesn’t actually get much work done. Achilles finds himself thinking why Patroclus is there at all. Maybe he didn’t actually like his job, and now that Achilles has picked up on the garden work, Patroclus is finally quitting. 

“A friend of mine is coming over next week,” his father continues.   
“An old business friend. He’s bringing his family.”  
His gaze has turned expectant, and Achilles knows what his father wants from him.

“You want me to come out and play happy families with you.”

The gaze turns into a glare.   
“I didn’t say that, did I? Stop putting words into my mouth,” his father snaps. 

“So, what? You want me to show my face, insert smile here and there, not hole up in my room all day? If that’s what you want, just say so.” 

There’s a tense silence. Achilles almost feels bad, realizing how childish he sounds. 

“I’ll come and say hello,” he whispers, just to stop that look on his father’s face. 

His father nods, satisfied.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hasn’t seen Patroclus at all, and decides that the man did quit after all. He debates going into town, finding him, maybe asking him for lunch or a drink. Turns aside the thought before he can act on it. 

His father’s old business friend arrives, his two sons in tow. They fill the halls with the sounds of their voices, and Achilles sits on his bed, listening to the chatter. Covering his ears, to block it out. He glances out the window at the vegetable patch, his four seedlings have grown taller. He’s going to have to move them into bigger pots soon, like Patroclus said. The sight of them takes the weight off his shoulders a little, but he can’t seem to rouse himself, to make his legs move off the bed. 

He can hear his father’s voice get louder and louder, and it makes him shift over to his nightstand. He opens the drawer and takes out the bottle of pills. He hates himself for taking them, but he ... can’t. He tries to smile, but his face is slack, his eyelids heavy. All he wants to do is burrow under the covers until the voices go away. He makes himself pop open the cap, takes out a pill. He swallows it dry, and winces as he feels it all the way down his throat, imagines it going down his esophagus and into his stomach. He wraps his arms around himself, closes his eyes. 

It’s not going to work, he knows. He hasn’t been taking them like he should, hasn’t taken them for long enough. He thinks about the last time his mother found out he’d stopped taking them.   
\----

_“You don’t even want to get better!” she seethes. Her long, white fingers clutch at her head like he’s giving her a migraine. He’s been giving her migraines since he was little. It’s always his fault._

_“I don’t like how they make me feel!” he cries, pushing at her to understand. He’s done everything she’s asked of him. But this - not this._

_“Don’t make me take them. Please. I’ll keep seeing Dr. Lycomedes. I’ll - whatever else you want -”_

_“What I want?” she screams.  
“What I want is for you to want to change! You have no idea how exhausting it is, Achilles. Hector has been dead for a year! You can’t keep doing this.”_

_There is a silence, at the words hanging in the air between them. He hates how Hector’s name sounds on her lips. She never liked him, he thinks. No one was ever good enough. Not even sweet, kind Hector, who made him feel like he had a place to belong. Made him feel like someone worth loving._

_His eyes well at the thought, and he swipes at them angrily. He won’t let her see._

_“I’m not taking them,” he says, willing his voice to be firm._

_His mother grips his arm, and there is so much fury in her eyes.  
“I will see that you take them, even if I have to shove them down your throat myself.”_

He shudders at the memory. He needs to - he needs to get out of this room, before his mind drifts away again. He steels himself, before turning the doorknob and facing what lies beyond.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Achilles, this is my old friend Telamon,” his father introduces, beckoning him towards the other man. Telamon looks a similar age to his father, with more white in his hair. His black eyes are scrutinizing as they look Achilles up and down. 

“Good to meet you, Telamon,” Achilles greets, keeping his face as neutral as possible. Telamon isn’t smiling - he’s not going to smile, either. 

“Yes. I’ve heard about you, of course. From your father.” The man doesn’t look impressed. 

_Wonderful. Just wonderful._

“All good things I hope,” Achilles remarks drily, shooting a glance at his father, who has the gall to look sheepish. 

“Achilles,” says another man, this one younger. Telamon’s son, presumably. 

“I’m Aias. This is my younger brother Teucer.” Aias gestures towards the third man. Teucer gives a small smile, but his attention is preoccupied with Telamon and Peleus’ conversation. Aias’ gaze remains on Achilles. 

“Nice to meet you both,” Achilles replies, sizing Aias up. The other man is taller than him, which is rare. He’s handsome, in that polished _my father owns your father’s company_ sort of way. He keeps staring at Achilles, rather shamelessly, and Achilles feels heat rush up to his face. He hasn’t been looked at like that in a long time. 

“Why don’t you show us around, while our fathers have a chance to catch up? It’s a beautiful villa.” Aias smirks, Achilles wants to smack it off his face, the self-satisfaction of it. 

“Of course.” He barely knows the area, he’s only been here a few weeks. But he isn’t going to admit that. 

“You two go ahead,” Teucer voices. “I can look around later.” 

Aias raises his hands in concession and sidles up to Achilles, so they walk side by side. Achilles catches a whiff of his cologne, and cringes. It’s the same cologne Hector used to wear. 

They walk around the grounds, Aias watching him all the while. Achilles knows he’s blathering on, making things up about which rooms do what, but Aias doesn’t seem to mind. He feels his skin prickling, turning his head every time they round a corner to make sure Patroclus isn’t somehow still hanging around, catching a glimpse of them. He feels stupid. Patroclus isn’t here anymore. 

He starts to get more comfortable around Aias, the conversation is easy. Aias talks about his father’s business, the town they live in; it’s a dull topic, but he has a way of speaking, of sneaking in jokes, that makes Achilles pay closer attention. Before Achilles knows it, they’re bantering together, and he manages to push his thoughts aside for a little while, to forget. 

At dinner, Aias is nearly as silent as Achilles. Their fathers control the conversation, with Teucer chipping in every now and then. Telamon seems to favor Aias, and asks for his opinion with everything, but the older son’s replies are indifferent - his attention is on Achilles, and Achilles doesn’t know what to feel about it. 

Later that night, there’s a knock on his door.

He was expecting this, and pulls the covers closer around himself. He can’t stop the rush of thoughts that come at him, eyeing the doorknob. 

There’s another knock. If he doesn’t get the door soon, Aias will get the hint and walk away. 

Before he can think again, he’s on his feet and the door is open. 

Aias’ smirking face meets him on the other side. 

“I thought you’d like some company,” the other man murmurs. He has a nice voice, Achilles thinks. He can smell Hector’s cologne again, and it’s driving him to insanity. He thinks someone else has taken possession of his body, the way he grabs Aias and pulls him into the room, shutting the door and locking it behind them. 

He can’t seem to quiet the sharp urge he feels now, the painful need of someone’s body against his. Aias steps forward and claims his mouth; the kiss is rough, their lips mashed together. It’s barely kissing, more like a fight between them, of who can push harder. 

Aias’ mouth feels good, and shame has started to pool itself in Achilles’ stomach. He fights through it, pressing his body up against the other man, pushing him onto the bed. He feels Aias undoing the string of his pajama pants, pulling it off, along with his underwear. Feels a hand grip his cock, elegant fingers stroking along the length. He’s so hard it’s painful. 

Their tongues are entangled in a dance, Aias licking teasingly, getting more forceful with each second. Achilles pulls away, throws off his shirt, and leans down to help Aias out of his. He has a beautiful body, of course. Broad shoulders, lean muscle. Achilles looks down at him, because he doesn’t want to look upwards, at Aias’ face. Doesn’t think he can handle that smirk. 

He presses his mouth against Aias’ neck, willing his eyes not to smart as the scent of the cologne fills his nose. Kisses down the other man’s chest, down to his abdomen. Avoids Aias’ eyes as he lowers his head and takes the other man’s cock into his mouth. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and rounds his lips, slides his mouth as far down as he can. Aias is smooth as velvet, and Achilles moans as he takes more of him in, sucking, wanting to hear the other man come undone in his mouth. 

“You’re good at that, aren’t you,” Aias whispers, and it breaks the spell. 

Achilles lets the cock fall from his mouth, and chances a look up. He doesn’t think he can stand any more of that shrewd gaze, as heated as it is. He clambers onto the bed and puts his head on the pillow. 

“Fuck me,” he orders. “I want you to fuck me.”

Aias doesn’t say a word as he climbs off the bed. Achilles can hear him reaching into his discarded clothes; lube, a condom. He hears the packet being torn. Aias did come prepared. 

“You do this to all the sons of your father’s old business friends?” he thinks aloud, and hears Aias stiffen. 

Then the other man is straddling him, strong legs nudging his thighs apart.   
“If they want,” Aias whispers in his ear. 

And then he feels slick fingers entering him, taking their time. His own cock has wilted by now, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to lose himself in the sensation, but he can’t seem to catch the feeling again. Aias starts to seat himself inside him, and it stings, before he’s filled with the other man’s length. His cock starts to stir again, it feels good. Aias’ thrusts are deep and fast, and he goes a long time before he finishes inside Achilles. 

They’re covered in sweat by the time it’s over, and Achilles wants the other man to leave. Thankfully, Aias gets up from the bed a few minutes after he’s recovered. He doesn’t say anything as he shrugs his clothes back on, only gives Achilles a lingering glance as he lets himself out the door.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Aias comes to his room every night. Achilles lets the other man fuck him, unable to trust himself. He doesn’t know if he wants Aias, or just wants the feeling of the other man’s body. It feels good, but there isn’t any desire. Or if there is, it can’t be fulfilled. He lies on his bed at the end of each meeting, feeling Aias looking at him, not questioning why he hasn’t come. 

He’s been taking the pills every day. 

At the end of the week, Telamon finally announces his goodbyes, and they see him off. Teucer waves at Achilles from the car, but Aias is in the passenger seat on the other side, not having said a parting word. Achilles thinks the other man has caught a glimpse of the damage within him, has seen his shame, and they can do nothing now but try to forget.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hasn’t been back in his vegetable patch since Telamon’s visit, and warm relief floods through him to see his seedlings still thriving. He’s gotten new pots to transfer them into, and he works slowly. He lets himself feel the earth between his fingers, the soft leaves of the plants. Hears the sound of water as he pours it into each pot. The wind is gentle as it blows against his face, and he thinks he could start to heal, this way. He shakes off the last tendrils of Hector’s cologne, breathes instead in the scent of earth and leaves and wind. 

“Your kids seem to be doing fine. Maybe you don’t make such a bad fish parent after all,” a voice sounds from behind him. 

He thought he’d heard the last of that voice. 

“Patroclus, I thought you quit,” he says, keeping his voice steady. 

A silence. 

“ … Patroclus? You know everyone calls me Pat.”

Achilles turns around then, meets his stranger’s eyes. They gleam like warm syrup in the sunlight. 

“I’m not everyone,” Achilles simply says.

Patroclus looks at him, the corners of his mouth slowly turning up. 

“If you say so,” he says.


	3. Chapter 3

They’re back in their usual routine again, meeting every day to talk over the tomatoes. Achilles finds himself looking forward to going down to the vegetable patch every morning. He wakes up, and the thought of Patroclus crosses his mind. He can feel himself smile. He touches his face when he does so. It’s a curious feeling, like he doesn’t have anything to worry about. It’s easy, and it’s simple. He goes down to the patch, and Patroclus stops by. They talk, and he makes Patroclus laugh. He waits for the eyes to crinkle, waits for the quiet secret laugh, and he feels a little chime go off in his chest; his day is complete. 

One of those days, he makes the mistake of thinking out loud. 

There isn’t much to do when he’s not watering and fertilizing the tomatoes. He’s gotten some cages for them, so they have support as they grow taller. He’s shifted them over from their pots into long wooden crates that he built himself. 

“Do you want to know what I’ve named my tomato children?” he asks, and waits for Patroclus to let out his quiet secret laugh. 

He doesn’t realize he’s actually said it out loud, until Patroclus stares at him. 

“What quiet secret laugh?” Patroclus asks, and Achilles could sink into the ground. He wishes his tomatoes would grow mouths with sharp fangs, and swallow him whole. 

“Mm, nothing. It’s a mantra. I meditate to it.”

“You meditate to the mantra _quiet secret laugh_?” Patroclus presses, doubtful. 

“They’re all the things I like, you see? Quiet, I like that. Secret, well who doesn’t love a good secret? Laugh. I like to laugh.”

“I’ve never heard you laugh,” Patroclus states, his tone suddenly serious. He looks at Achilles, but there isn’t a challenge in his gaze. He just seems worried. 

Achilles lets the silence go on for a few moments, but Patroclus doesn’t give in. 

“Alright,” Achilles sighs.   
“It’s not my mantra. It’s your laugh.”

Patroclus raises his eyebrows. “Mine? What about it?”

“I like it,” Achilles replies. “I like your laugh.”

He looks at the ground as he admits this, but sneaks a glance at Patroclus. At no change in Patroclus’ expression, he starts to feel bold.   
“It’s my favorite thing to hear,” he adds, voice small. 

Patroclus stares at him for a moment, eyes widening. 

Then he breaks out into a grin; a full, warm, beautiful one.   
“Really,” he says, tone full of mischief. 

Achilles flushes, he rubs at his neck to make the redness go away, though it probably makes it worse.   
“Really. Oh, fuck off.” But he meets Patroclus’ eyes, and they smile at each other, and for the first time in a long time, he feels wide awake, open, and unchained.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He finds the cellar on a walk one day, when he’s looking around for a place to plant another vegetable patch. The tomato plants are growing healthier than ever, and he can imagine vegetable gardens all over the grounds of the villa, maybe even a greenhouse. Flowers, too. All kinds of plants. He has started to think that maybe green isn’t such a bad color after all. 

The doors of the cellar are worn down, and the lock is rusted. It doesn’t look like it’s been used at all, but he wonders all the same if this is where his father keeps an extensive collection of vintages.

 _So this is the booze he’s been keeping locked up_ , he thinks. _Wine._

He shrugs, it’s not like he’s about to raid a wine cellar, desperate for a drink. The old man needn’t worry. He was never much of a wine drinker anyway. It was always Hector who liked to go to wine tastings, who travelled the world just to visit different wine regions. 

_“How are we going to bring this all back?” he sighs, lifting a hand at the crates of wine bottles on the floor of their hotel room. They’ve been to three different vineyards at this point, and as much as he loves some vacation time, he has his limits._

_Hector relaxes on the bed, not a care in the world. The expression of utter bliss on his face is what stops Achilles from grumbling further._

_“We’ll ship it back, don’t you worry about it.” Hector turns his head, and the look in his eyes makes Achilles step over the crates to clamber onto the bed, rolling over on top of the other man._

_“Thank you for bringing me here,” Achilles murmurs, placing kisses along Hector’s jawline and down his neck. The man deserves all the loving he can give, and damn it if he isn’t going to give it._

_Hector beams, the gleaming white of his teeth a stark contrast to his olive complexion.  
“I’d bring you anywhere, my love. If only you would stop objecting and let me take you more often.” _

_Achilles feels a small sinking in his stomach then. He doesn’t deserve these things, and he knows it. He barely makes enough to pay his share of their rent, because Hector lives in such an expensive neighborhood. Hector had refused at first, insisting that he cover their expenses, but Achilles still has some pride. He could be in a steady, serious relationship with a man who makes triple the amount of money he makes, but he isn’t about to turn into a freeloader. He’s been saving up. The next time they have time off, he’s going to surprise Hector with a trip to Turkey. It’s where Hector’s ancestors were from, and the man is an avid history fanatic who’s always wanted to see the ruins of Troy._

_The thought brings a smile to his face then, of that last paycheck he would need to cover their tickets, lodging, and a little extra. He thinks of how Hector’s face would light up, for once getting a real present, not whatever cheap goods Achilles can only ever afford for anniversaries and birthdays. He looks down at Hector, at the brown eyes he loves so much, the crooked nose that had been broken so many times in Hector’s younger days._

_“I love you,” he whispers, bringing their faces together so he can kiss him, feel soft lips against his own. He can feel Hector’s smile during their kiss, the other man’s strong hands coming up to cup the back of his neck._

He shivers as the memory passes through him. He needs to get away. It’s been a while since thoughts of Hector cause the blinding pain of grief anymore, but it still leaves him senseless, in a daze for the rest of the day, and he can’t be like this. He’s going to see Patroclus so he can show him the budding tomato flowers … he’s been thinking about it all day.   
\----

“You’ve really gotten into this, haven’t you?” Patroclus asks, leaning over to inspect the yellow flowers beginning to grow on the plants. There are two, and they are beautiful. Achilles touches them with the tips of his fingers ever so lightly, thinking that he’s done this. He’s made these flowers grow. One for him, and one for Patroclus. He looks over at the other man to find himself being watched. 

“I used to drive myself insane waiting for the plants to flower. It would take ages and ages for the first fruit to grow, you know. But when it happened, I was never happier.” Patroclus smiles slightly, leaning back to catch the breeze on his skin, it blows his hair away from his face. Achilles wants to tuck that hair behind Patroclus’ ear.

Patroclus looks back at Achilles, and his eyes are darker than usual, full of consternation. “Does this make you happy?”

Achilles looks at the product of his work, the hours he has spent nurturing these plants. He had never gardened in his life. Never wanted to. He’s done this for Patroclus, whom he doesn’t know, but whose easy presence makes him think he could do anything, even if it’s just messing around in the dirt and killing more than half of his seedlings. 

“Don’t I seem happy?” he mutters, stroking a flower absent-mindedly.

Patroclus is quiet for a while. He studies Achilles, his lips quirking as though wanting to smile, but held back by something. 

“Not really,” he says, finally. 

“I don’t think you ever seem happy. When you’re here in the garden, you almost seem at peace. But most of the time …” he trails off, biting his lip. 

“I think you seem sad about something.” He pauses. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to presume anything. I don’t know what you’re thinking, and I could be very wrong.” 

Achilles’ hand is threatening to squeeze the flower until it crumples. No one has ever … spoken to him like this. No pity, no condescension, no anger at all. Just gentle concern, a hesitant reaching out with a desire for connection. He chances a look at Patroclus, at his open face, his solemn, kind eyes. He thinks him beautiful. 

“It never goes away.” His voice is hushed, he has to keep it from cracking. 

“It isn’t always sadness. But I … I don’t know myself anymore. I don’t know what I’ve become. I don’t know how to go back. And I don’t know if I would even want to, if I could.” His eyes are stinging, but he closes them, takes a breath. 

He has never spoken of this. 

“Have you ever lost someone you loved?” 

Patroclus cocks his head to one side, considering this.   
“I … my parents died, when I was little. But I don’t remember much of them. I suppose it’s not the same.”

Achilles smiles a little, just to feel something on his face, to prepare himself for the words he’s going to say next.

“Once, I had the world. I had … the love of a man I was never supposed to have, never should have even met. But somehow, we met. Somehow, he wanted me. He -” his voice does crack then.   
“He was everything I was afraid to want. And I had it. He was good to me, made me feel loved and accepted. Every day I woke up and I thought, I’ll blink and he’ll be gone. But he was always there. Until … he wasn’t.” 

He evens his breaths, keeping his eyes closed. Patroclus is silent next to him, but he can hear the other man shifting closer. 

He lets it happen then, lets the memory wash over him. The one he’s been keeping at bay for all this time. He wants to tell Patroclus. He thinks he can. Maybe it took meeting this man, his stranger, for him to finally be ready to let go. 

_He’s in the police station. Shaking.  
He thinks maybe he blacked out, the way he can’t seem to remember the trip here at all. His mind keeps flashing back to that moment, when he steps into the apartment. _

_He’d picked up Agamemnon’s late shift, the big oaf was always missing work to go out partying. But he needed the extra money. He’d bought the tickets to Turkey, but he didn’t want Hector to fork out over the other expenses either. He was going to pay for everything, he was sure of it._

_He comes home, and the apartment is dark. He wonders if maybe Hector is working late too, none of the lights are on. He nearly trips over some things left on the floor, and halts to wonder why there are things on the floor at all. He turns on the hall light, and freezes when he sees the state the apartment is in. It’s been ransacked. It’s like a tornado has passed through here. He debates running out again and calling for help, but the place is dead quiet. Whoever did this, they’re not here anymore._

_He walks further inside, surveying the scene.  
Nothing seems to be damaged, but - _

_Hector is lying on the kitchen floor.  
Face down in a pool of blood. His own blood. _

_Achilles cries out, running over to him.  
“Hector? Hector!”_

_It’s no use. He’s dead. He’s been shot in the head._

_Feeling frozen with terror, Achilles gets up and runs to the telephone. He has to stop a few times, the tremor in his hands keeps him from dialing the right numbers. He looks over at Hector and squeezes his eyes shut, realizes his face is streaked with tears. Anything. Anything for this not to be real._

_At the police station, some detectives talk to him about a case they’ve been working on. Their words string together, he can’t seem to focus. Hector is the missing piece of the puzzle they’ve been looking for. Money laundering, they say. A revenge kill._

_Achilles can’t piece it together. How could Hector - his Hector, do any of this? He shakes his head and mumbles, but the detectives can only give him sympathetic looks and continue asking questions._

_Later that night his mother picks him up from the station. She says nothing on the ride home. They haven’t spoken for years at that point, she could never accept that he was with Hector. They reach her home and he collapses on the floor. She takes him into her arms and he cries into her lap until he can’t cry anymore._

“I always thought he was perfect. And even when I found out he wasn’t … it didn’t matter. It didn’t mean anything. I just needed him so much.”

They sit in silence for a while, Achilles doesn’t miss how the sky darkens, they’ve been there for hours. Patroclus doesn’t try to comfort him, doesn’t try to offer words of condolences. He reaches his hand over, so that it’s an inch away from Achilles’. Achilles looks down at their hands; Patroclus’ is small next to his, the fingers thin and brown. 

“Thank you for telling me,” says Patroclus. “You’ve … given me so much of yourself, and I don’t know how … I don’t know if it’s better or worse.”

“It’s better,” Achilles says, almost immediately. 

He looks at Patroclus, at Patroclus’ hand, stares into his eyes, which are nearly black in the shadows of the waning light. 

“I don’t know why I can tell you this, but you make everything better. You’ve been - making things better, ever since I came here.”

Patroclus shifts even closer to him then, and he can smell his scent again, fresh, clean, warm. Can almost feel the strands of Patroclus’ hair blowing near his face in the soft wind. 

“I hope I have,” Patroclus says. 

“What more?” he says, an indefinite question, but Achilles knows what he means.

“This,” Achilles whispers, and leans forward to close the gap between them. 

The scent fills him then, and he inhales; he wants to feel everything, hear everything, see everything. He feels the smallest, reluctant rising of hope, like a crack in the clouds revealing beams of sunlight. Finally. He will be able to feel Patroclus’ skin against his own, feel the silkiness of his hair, their breaths intermingling. He’s yearned for it, but there’s no weight, it’s as easy as it always has been between them. 

There’s a second of warmth as their lips start to meet, and then empty air.   
His eyes snap open, and Patroclus is gone.


	4. Chapter 4

He decides it’s time to get up. He can’t keep doing this. It feels like invisible superglue, the way he’s stuck to his bed, but he wills the strength into his legs. Rolls over and sits up. He’s been starting to feel it. The craving of something that will stop this feeling. When he closes his eyes, he’s crouching on the ground, covered in dirt; looking around helplessly as he wonders why he’s been left alone. 

Patroclus? Patroclus. 

The name echoes in his head, the way he’d called it until it died on his lips. He can’t fathom it. Why had Patroclus said those things, looked that way, only to disappear when he was about to take the first step? He’d been on the edge of a cliff, and Patroclus had guided him, only to vanish as he toppled over and plunged into empty air. 

He looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching. A deep loathing enters him then, as he realizes he’s about to give in to his weakness. The devil inside him, that demands to be fed. The devil he’d thought he had conquered. 

He needs a drink. And he knows where to find one. 

He tries not to look out the window as he staggers over to the door. He hasn’t taken much time to explore the place; that day he showed Aias around was as far as he went. But he knows where his father’s study is. Knows the likelihood that if there’s a key to the cellar, where his father’s wine collection is, it will be there. 

The house is empty, and he realizes exactly how quiet the halls are, without the staff bustling around. His own footsteps ring in his ears, his shadow jumps at him from the corner of his eyes. He climbs the steps to the second floor, goes past his father’s room. The study is at the end of the hallway, and he places a hand on the doorknob, hoping it isn’t locked. 

The door creaks open and he steps in, as silently as he can, even though he knows the old man isn’t home. There are shelves and shelves of musty old books, closed cabinets, and a large mahogany desk. 

He goes for the desk first. Opens each drawer, rifles through the contents. His father is not a neat man. The study appears to be tidy, but inside the drawers, objects lie in casual disarray. They’ve been tossed in there and forgotten. 

He finds letters, bills, nothing he really wants. He needs the key. Where else could it be? He opens another drawer, and stops when he sees what’s inside. A stack of envelopes, tied together with a rubber band, the topmost addressed to his father. _In his mother’s handwriting_. They look old, the ink nearly faded. He stares at the envelopes, letters his mother wrote to his father. 

He reaches out a hand and brushes his father’s name with the tip of his finger. The envelopes are falling apart. Maybe his father had … read these, over and over again. Were these written after he left? Or were these from a younger time, when they were still in love, before Achilles was born? Hesitating, he pulls out an envelope from the bundle. The one below it is exactly the same, the same handwriting, his father’s name. 

He turns the envelope over, sees the browning of its edges. Then carefully, he slides it back into the bundle. 

He searches the entire study. Opens the cabinets, glossing over files, old business records, financial documents. Even looks in some of the books to see if a key has been placed inside the covers. He thinks he’s going crazy. Such a frantic search, all for something he’s managed to avoid all this time. 

He’s about to give up when he looks at the drawer again, where his mother’s letters are kept. He opens it, takes the bundle out, roots through the other contents. The letters are not all that were in there. There’s a manila folder, a date carelessly printed in black marker on top. It means nothing to him. He opens it, thinking he’ll find something more of his mother, anything that will show him why his father left them. 

Instead, he finds a pile of photographs. They’re neatly arranged together in the folder, old and grainy. They’re of … people he doesn’t know. He looks at the faces, scanning them for his father, his mother, some familiar person. Sifts through each one. And then he sees it and almost drops the entire pile. 

A face, among the others. It’s Patroclus. 

He’s not in all of them, but the ones he’s in, he looks at home, and happy. He looks exactly like how he is when they’re together in the vegetable patch. His eyes are serious in the photographs, his smile soft, but it’s him, no doubt of it. Achilles clutches the pictures to his chest and feels even more confusion than ever.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Who is he?” he demands, tossing the photographs on the table in front of his father. 

His father starts; he slowly puts down his cup of tea, expression turning to disbelief and displeasure when he sees what the photographs are. Taking one, he glares up at Achilles.  
“What were you doing in my study?”

Achilles ignores this. “The man in the photos.” 

He scrambles to grab the pictures with Patroclus in them, shows them to his father. 

“This one. Who is he? Does he work for you? Why do you have pictures of your staff hidden in a drawer?”

The questions keep coming, and he’s suddenly afraid his father won’t answer. But there’s a frown on the old man’s face now, as he studies each photo closely. He clears his throat, looks up at Achilles, and away again. 

“Please, dad. Tell me,” Achilles pushes, gentler, this time. 

His father puts down the photos, but his eyes never leave them.  
“These are the people who lived in the villa. I bought it from them.”

Achilles frowns. He wasn’t expecting that at all. But then … well, that didn’t make much sense.  
“Why…?”

His father interrupts. “After I … after your mother, I needed a place of my own. My business wasn’t doing very well at the time. I couldn’t afford a grand house, but I was willing to settle for less. A place I could invest in. And you see, it’s paid off.” 

He gestures around them, at the villa, an impressive home still, despite the recent staff shortages. 

“My friend Telamon knew I needed a new home. He found this place, and introduced me to the people who were handling the sale. They were very hasty to sell the house, and I couldn’t imagine why. It was less grand back then, but still beautiful. The elegant architecture, the grounds. All the things I loved, and could make a home in.”

His father takes a breath, holds one of the photos again.  
“These people … they owned the house before I did. They were murdered, every one of them. It was a bloody story, I won’t … repeat it. No one wanted the house. Their relatives were desperate to sell. I took it. It was an easy decision. But …” he pointed at the photographs. 

“I couldn’t bear to throw these away. These people, they - called this place home, loved it, lived their lives here. The same thing I was about to do. I thought I could honor that, by accepting their presence here, accepting that whatever happened … these were people.”

Achilles is reeling, the photographs forgotten. He stares and stares, at his father, at the room, unseeing. 

Every … word. The conversations they’d had. The liveliness in his expression. His _scent_. 

Patroclus is _dead_. 

“Who … are you?” Achilles whispers to himself, not realizing the odd looks he’s getting from his father. 

“Who is he?” he cries, sinking into a chair. 

Who has he been talking to? 

Has he been falling off the edge into insanity? 

“Achilles,” his father says, and he feels a hand on his shoulder. He shakes it off. 

How can this be? Did all the time they spent together even happen? 

He surges forward then, scrambling out of the chair, ignoring his father’s confused questions. He runs out, into the yard, to the garden, his spot. Their spot. 

Gasps of air burst out from him as he sees them - the tomato vines, supported by their cages. Sturdy and tangible, in the earth. The two yellow flowers that have begun to grow, promising fruit. One for him, and one for Patroclus. 

He stumbles over to them and touches them, breathes in the smells he once tried to avoid. Needing to absorb them, to see them, to know that this is real. This is the only proof he has. This is all he has to hold on to.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He waits for Patroclus. Every day, he waits. He knows he will come, this time. Patroclus isn’t a gardener, isn’t paid by his father to look after the grounds. He’s something else. Something Achilles can’t fathom. But for some reason, this place is where Patroclus chooses to be. And it is here that he waits. 

The flowers are big and bright now, and he thinks they are healthy enough to bear fruit. He doesn’t know how long it will take, but he’s already grown more seedlings. More, for his tomato family. He remembers Patroclus saying there were other vegetables grown here, but he doesn’t think he can handle it just yet. He’s about to start watering the plants when he hears him.

He turns around, feeling the bees in his stomach again. Except they’re not bees anymore; they’re great angry wasps, and he’s afraid. He doesn’t know why he’s afraid, but he looks, and he sees. 

Patroclus is standing at the edge of the vegetable patch, looking as he always does. Achilles stares for a bit. Lets the image brand his vision. He wants to go closer, to see if the details are still there. The way the light hits Patroclus’ skin, making his freckles turn golden. The way his hair moves into his eyes. The easy movements of his lips, from smile to rare frown. His hands. 

Achilles wonders how real Patroclus will look, now that he knows. 

Patroclus appears unbothered as he walks up to Achilles. His steps are slow, his feet sinking into the soft earth. The dirt sticks to his shoes and on the skin of his ankles. His collar flutters slightly, as he bends to crouch down next to Achilles. 

Whatever Achilles has been expecting, has been wanting to see, yet afraid of; it isn’t there. Patroclus is as he is; real and vital. His chest moves to the rhythm of his breathing, and Achilles thinks he can hear his breaths. It … hurts. 

He runs a hand through his hair, squeezes his eyes shut, looks again. 

Patroclus is smiling sheepishly at him now. 

“I … I came to say I’m sorry about the other night. Well, actually I’m not sorry at all. I’m glad it happened. But if it was too fast … I don’t want you to think you have to rush, I never want you to think that -”  
He stops at the look Achilles gives him.

“Patroclus,” Achilles says, and doesn’t miss the flicker of affection in Patroclus’ eyes at hearing his name.  
“What do you think happened, the other night?”

Patroclus frowns.  
“... I - We kissed.”

“No, we didn’t.”

Patroclus starts to look hurt, and Achilles shakes his head. 

“Patroclus, there’s something I need to tell you. The other night, I leaned over to kiss you. When I opened my eyes, you were gone.”

Patroclus stares at him. 

Then, confusion starts to enter his expression, and he looks at the ground, as if he can find answers there.  
“I …”

“Do you remember what happened, afterwards? You say we kissed, do you remember what happened then?” Achilles presses. He tries to keep the urgency out of his tone, wary of scaring Patroclus away. The irony almost makes him snort with laughter; just a few minutes ago, he was the one who was scared. 

“...No.” Patroclus looks up, and there’s fear, mixed with the confusion.  
“I don’t … I don’t remember anything. I wanted to see you. I …” he starts to look panicked. 

“Patroclus, it’s been days since that night. Nearly two weeks.” He catches himself as he sees the panic deepen. 

“I was starting to think you’d disappeared for good. Then … I found these, in my father’s study.” He takes the photographs out of his pocket, hesitates. He was going to hand them to Patroclus, but instead, he sets them on the ground, arranges them so that they’re laid out side by side. 

Patroclus peers at the pictures, recognition slowly appearing in his gaze.  
“My family … and that’s me. Wait -” he looks up at Achilles.

“Why would your father have these pictures?”

Achilles sighs, ignoring the gnawing at his gut, the burden of the knowledge he’s about to unload. 

“My father owns the villa. He bought it from your family. He … they … and you…” he pauses, takes a deep breath. 

“Please know, I’m struggling to come to terms with this. I think I’ve gone out of my mind. The fact is, you and your family were … killed. You were dead, when my father bought the house. No one would buy it, but he did, and he kept these pictures of you, because he couldn’t stand to throw them out.” 

He closes his eyes. He knows what kind of reaction he’s going to get. 

“Please don’t think I’m trying to trick you. Patroclus, please, if any of the time we’ve spent together meant anything, believe me. Believe that I’m telling you the truth, that I would only ever give you the truth.” 

His eyes are prickling now, he didn’t think it would be this hard. He hasn’t stopped to think what it would mean, if this admission leads to Patroclus going away forever. But Patroclus needs the truth. He’s here for a reason, has been coming here for a reason, because he’s stuck. Because whatever the cause, Patroclus is like Achilles. Stuck, and unable to move on. 

He opens his eyes, and startles to see that Patroclus is sitting still, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

“I can’t remember,” he sobs, reaching up to wipe his face. 

Achilles sees the glisten of wetness on the back of his hand. Looks away, because this is hard, so hard. Everything he’s said to Patroclus, everything he’s been telling himself - he still can’t be sure if it’s a wicked trick of the mind, if he’s sitting here, talking to himself. If perhaps … Patroclus was never here, after all.

It doesn’t matter. He looks at his stranger’s face, breathes in his scent, and he knows. Even if he has gone mad, if he’s completely, utterly insane - if he’s managed to drown himself in his own delusions … he’s going to fight it. He and Patroclus are in this together, and they will find where they belong, even if this world has played it against them.


	5. Chapter 5

“Here? Step over here,” Achilles coaches, reaching out as if to take Patroclus’ hand, but stopping himself. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to try touching the other man. All he knows is that the last time he did, Patroclus disappeared for days. He’s afraid of what will happen if he tries again. If Patroclus will be gone for good. 

They’ve been walking around the villa, together. Stepping out of the vegetable patch. Patroclus admits he has lapses in memory. Aside from his daily conversations at the garden with Achilles, he doesn’t recall anything of his day-to-day life. 

After some brainstorming, they have come to the conclusion that the vegetable garden holds some sort of lure for Patroclus. It is the place he spent most of his time at, when he was alive. And it’s the place he can remember the most about, although he doesn’t remember much of how it was before Achilles arrived. 

Achilles wants to know if Patroclus can leave the patch. Aside from … wherever he goes when he disappears. They walk through the hallways together, tentative; one step too far and it’s possible they will be back where they started. 

Achilles takes in the sight of Patroclus, his slow and sure movements as they go up the stairs. He’s stopped trying to convince himself that Patroclus could be a figment of his imagination. Patroclus is here, and whatever he is, he’s as real as he can be. Achilles imagines putting a hand on the small of Patroclus’ back, lacing their fingers together; he’s started to long for it, now that Patroclus is so close, yet so far away. 

“Did you sleep up here? Back then?”

Patroclus looks around.   
“I think so. But … it’s different. I don’t recognize this upper floor.”

“My father did make some renovations. He always liked a lavish home.”

“Mm, I don’t remember it being quite so grand. We had money, but there were barely enough rooms for all of us. It was cozy, in a way.” 

They reach Achilles’ room. 

“In here.” He opens the door, and lets Patroclus in. Holds his breath as the other man steps over the threshold, expecting him to somehow vanish into thin air. He doesn’t. He walks into the room, and starts looking around. 

“This is yours?” Patroclus asks, glancing at the bare walls, the empty space of the floor.

“It’s … not very lived in. I used to live in the city, before I came to stay with my father. I guess this used to be a guest room.” 

He watches as Patroclus sits on the bed. Goes to sit next to him. 

They smile at each other, and Patroclus inches closer until they’re barely touching.

“Do it again,” he says, so soft Achilles has to check if he’s heard right.

“Do…?”

Patroclus leans forward, his face not an inch from Achilles’. 

“But - but what if-” 

Then Achilles gives in. He keeps his eyes open, holding Patroclus’ gaze, and their lips start to meet. He thinks it’s happening, at first. He can feel the warmth of Patroclus’ breaths on his lips - but then he realizes, they’re not breaths at all. Whatever it is he feels, it is something distinctly Patroclus. Something about his existence, that makes him feel alive and corporeal. But there’s a slight difference; it’s not quite the same as a living person’s breath. 

The next thing he knows, he’s lying on his bed. He doesn’t know how he got there, but they’ve broken a rule, and Patroclus is gone. He sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and goes down to the vegetable patch to wait for him again. He has to stop being afraid that Patroclus will disappear.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s the first time he’s really been out in town. He hasn’t left the villa since he arrived. He convinces Nestor to drive him to the town library. 

“Don’t know why you can’t make do with the books in your old man’s library,” Nestor grumbles.  
“Still, I guess it’s good you’re getting out and around. Been cooped up in that place for too long.”

He doesn’t know what to look for, but after an hour or two, he’s found newspapers that date back to the case. There isn’t a lot of information. A column here and there about the family that was killed in their home - no details. The case had gone cold, never having been solved. Gradually, it stopped showing up in the papers. He writes everything down anyway, the dates, whatever names show up. Takes the bus to the police station, looks up old reports. They’re hard to find, as the case must have been abandoned for some twenty years. He leaves empty-handed, but one of the officers asks him to come back - maybe something will show up, after some searching.

It’s late in the evening when he gets home, and he decides he needs to talk to his father. His father seemed to know some details of what happened, and he wants that information. Whatever will help Patroclus remember. Whatever can help him move on, to wherever it is he’s supposed to go. 

“This again?” his father asks, sounding weary, when he brings it up at dinner.

“First you ask to borrow the photographs. What is it about this that has you so interested?”

“I’ve been seeing one of them walking around here and need to find out if the place is haunted,” Achilles snaps, deciding truth is the best defence. 

His father scowls at him, but gives in.   
“There isn’t much I know that I haven’t already told you. They were a large family. An intruder came into the house and held them hostage. Killed each one, then left. He was never caught.” 

“That’s it? How did they die? Were they shot? Stabbed? How -”

“Their throats were slit,” his father cuts in sharply.   
“Two of the younger ones were raped. Is that enough information for you?”

Achilles stills.

“That’s … that’s all you know?”

“That’s all I know,” his father confirms, gravely.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s lying on his bed, clutching the piece of paper in his hand. It’s been crumpled so many times the edges are starting to fray. He glances at the wastepaper basket. He could just be done with it. They wouldn’t have to speak of it, ever. 

“What have you found for me, my Lord of the Tomatoes?” 

He jumps so hard the headboard slams against the wall. 

“Patroclus!” 

Sure enough, Patroclus is standing at the foot of his bed, shuffling his feet as though uncertain if he’s welcome there. 

“You…” he feels himself start to grin.   
“You made it here on your own!”

Patroclus smiles self-consciously.   
“I did. I remembered how to get to you.”

The warm feeling inside him rises to his chest, enters his head like a fog.

“I …” he pats the edge of the bed next to him, then remembers the piece of paper and stuffs it into his pocket. 

“What do you have there?” Patroclus perches onto the bed beside him, smoothening the sheets. 

Achilles can’t stop staring at the way the crinkles in the sheets flatten out under Patroclus’ fingers.

“It’s um … well, yesterday I went into town and I - I was looking for information, about what happened to you.” He doesn’t want to see Patroclus’ expression drop, but the other man only looks curious. 

“Didn’t find much,” he admitted. “But I did find something else.”

“Oh?” 

“I don’t know if I should - if we should do this, though. If we can even leave the grounds.”

“What is it, Achilles?” 

Achilles stares up at Patroclus, his hand still in his pocket, clenching and unclenching around the piece of paper. He’d spent the morning on the phone with the town’s funeral home. 

“You don’t have to do this. All you have to say is no, and I won’t mention it again.” He takes out the piece of paper, smoothens it out. 

“How would you like to see your grave?”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’ve been nervous, the entire walk to the cemetery. It’s only a twenty minute walk from the villa. Achilles keeps glancing around, wondering if they’ll come across anyone. The dirt road to the cemetery is mostly deserted, lined with trees leading into the forest. The cemetery itself seems largely neglected, tall grass growing over most of the headstones. 

“It’s going to take us forever to find it,” Patroclus whispers next to him. 

Grey clouds loom overhead, and a cold draft causes the goosebumps to rise on Achilles’ skin. Patroclus has his arms around himself, and in that instant he looks so human; hunched over, anxious. Achilles wants to take him, wants to wrap him up in his arms; wants to take him away from here and never come back. But they have to face it. 

Patroclus is starting to remember, starting to recover bits and pieces of his existence outside the garden. The longer he stays away from that place, the less he loses of himself. Achilles remembers a story about an island; enchanted lotus, visitors, and forgetting. Somehow the vegetable patch is like that for Patroclus, and Achilles’ arrival has broken the spell. 

“We’ll find it,” Achilles assures him. “Even if it takes all day, I won’t leave until we’ve found it.” 

It nearly does take them the whole day. There are so _many_ headstones, some of them cracked and faded, and it seems almost impossible they can find Patroclus’ among all the others. They tread carefully, avoiding stepping on any, squinting at the names. Achilles brings out a flashlight when the sun starts to set. He has to keep glancing over his shoulder, making sure Patroclus is still there. 

They find it by chance, when they’ve almost given up on a particular area. They’ve found the graves of Patroclus’ family, a set of stones huddled together under a copse of trees. There is a foreboding beauty about the place, the way the stones are arranged together. Patroclus’ eyes roam over the headstones, at the names, and his hand reaches out to Achilles, seeking solace. He catches himself before they can touch, and for a bare moment Achilles sees his face; adrift, the lone survivor of a shipwreck. 

“Why am I here?” Patroclus wonders. He’s looked away from the headstones of his family now.   
“Why aren’t they here with me? Why am I not with them?”

Achilles has no answer. 

They’re about to walk away when his eyes catch a pair of headstones, a little ways away from the others. He goes closer to make sure. 

“Found it,” he whispers. 

_Patroclus Menoetiades_. Moss has grown over it, but he would recognize the name anywhere. The one next to it is barely legible, but he can guess it belongs to one of Patroclus’ siblings. 

They stare at the headstone and Patroclus drifts so close to Achilles, so close the hairs on his arm stand up straight. 

“You know …” Patroclus starts.   
“For most of my life I was content to stay at the villa. More so than my siblings, who all had plans to go away. I couldn’t quite bring myself to leave the town. But I dreamed of it. And now I … now I’ll never leave.” 

Achilles turns to Patroclus, brings him away from the pair of stones on the ground.   
“Let’s go,” he says. “Let’s go home, Patroclus.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’re back in Achilles’ room, laying on the bed face-to-face. Achilles wants to feel it again, the lifelike almost-breath that Patroclus has; the bridge between their two existences. 

“Should I have brought you there?” Achilles worries, moving his hand onto the pillow so that it lays next to Patroclus’. 

Patroclus smiles; Achilles sees his own reflection in the other man’s eyes. 

“I needed to see it,” he replied. “Thank you, Achilles.”

“Do you remember more now?” 

Patroclus shakes his head, closes his eyes, and it’s as though someone has shut off the lights. 

“I know who I am, yet … I don’t. I’m starting to see what you meant, that night.”

“It’s funny, I - I haven’t been feeling like that anymore,” Achilles admits.   
“All it took was a haunting by a friendly gardener ghost to bring me back.”

Patroclus chuckles, and there it is again. The sound Achilles loves to hear. He imagines a scribble, pen scratching over paper; Patroclus signing his name over Achilles’ heart. 

“I wish I could give you something of myself, something real. Like you’ve given to me - your secrets, the truth that you know. But I have nothing to give. Broken memories, that’s all.” Patroclus’ voice cracks slightly, but his gaze is steady and clear.

“You’ve given me what I needed. You’ve brought me the world I missed so much.”

Patroclus moves, then, sitting up a little to lean over Achilles. Achilles recognizes that look in his eyes; if they could only touch. But it is an unspoken rule; they do not live in the same worlds, however much those worlds have aligned for them to meet like this. 

Achilles moves to break the silence that has stretched out between them.

“If I’d known you then,” he says. 

He sits up next to Patroclus. He moves his face closer, blows on Patroclus’ neck, and watches as the gooseflesh rises on it. 

Patroclus catches on, and the shade of mischief colors his smile this time.

“If I’d known you then,” he echoes. 

The words come, ringing low and warm in Achilles’ ears.  
“I would want to see you. All of you, your skin, your body. How you would look beneath me. I would see all of it.”

Achilles shifts a little, slowly unbuttons his shirt, careful not to brush his arm against Patroclus, who is so near, watching him. He takes it off, and moves to slide his trousers down his hips. He hesitates for a second, then his underwear goes along with the others. 

Patroclus’ eyes follow him unabashedly, keen and tranquil. 

Achilles stretches out so he is bared for Patroclus, holding his gaze, their silent dance ongoing. 

“You saw me. What did you do then?” Achilles presses.

Patroclus leans forward so his lips are at Achilles’ neck, a second more and the skin would meet.

“I kissed you here,” he whispers, and moves to trace a finger down the line of Achilles’ shoulder, hovering. 

For half a second Achilles can almost feel the brush of lips over his neck, the softness of a fingertip trailing down to his collarbone. 

Achilles shudders as Patroclus leans close, threateningly close; he has but to lose his balance and the moment is gone. 

“I touched you, just to feel your skin.” He carefully positions himself over Achilles.

“How did you touch me?” Achilles asks, heat rising to his face.

“I put my hands on your thighs, spread them; felt you wrap them around me.” Achilles parts his legs, thighs quaking, as Patroclus crouches between them. 

“Tell me how it felt, when I did that,” Patroclus says, and it takes all of Achilles’ will not to surge forward, not to claim his lips and lose himself in the other’s embrace. 

“I liked the feeling of you between my legs … liked how you moved against me,” Achilles breathes, the air in his lungs faltering.   
“But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.” Slowly, his hand shaking, Achilles reaches down and takes his length into his own hand, making sure Patroclus’ gaze shadows his movements. 

“So I gave you more,” Patroclus continues. He pauses, biting his lip as he watches Achilles stroke himself.   
“Did you like how my fingers felt over your cock?”

Achilles lets out an involuntary moan. He nods, unable to get the words out. 

“You felt so good, in my hand.” Patroclus’ cheeks are flushed, but he continues to talk, and Achilles feels the sudden sting of pleasure in him - he hasn’t felt this way, not in a long time. 

“I wanted you in my mouth, to taste you, to have a part of you inside me.”

His stroking has quickened, his hips jerking, and he sobs. He needs Patroclus.  
“Want you,” he gasps. “Want you so much.”  
He meets Patroclus’ eyes, uncloaked in their desire; those _come make love with me_ eyes. The quietness of the room weighs on them, a burden only lifted by their faint noises.

Patroclus is rocking above him, as though unconsciously, unable to keep still at the sight of Achilles.   
“I took you, and you felt even better, the way you filled me. I could taste you, and hear the sounds you made. I’d never made love to anyone like that before.” 

Achilles is lost. The pleasure has become blinding. He doesn’t care what he looks like, he wants Patroclus to see this. Wants him to see how he’s been touched, what Patroclus has done to him.  
“I’m going to - Patroclus. Patroclus -”  
His hips start to buck, a sweet sharpness approaching. He sees Patroclus’ knuckles turn white as they grip the sheets around him. 

“I could feel you throbbing in my mouth. The fullness of you, Achilles-” Patroclus’ eyes are half-closed now, he bends over Achilles like he’s going to fall upon him at any moment.  
“And then you started to come inside me-”

He lets out a cry, half sob, half groan; nearly jolts off the bed, the way he’s convulsing, leaking all over himself. It isn’t ever going to stop. 

He clenches his stomach, can’t stop the stutter in his breaths as his legs continue to twitch. Patroclus has shifted back a little, so they don’t touch, but the pattern of his breathing is ragged. His pupils are black and enlarged; he looks like he’s the one who’s been thoroughly fucked. 

When the last of Achilles’ tremors have subsided, they lay next to each other, and Achilles can’t help but laugh a little.   
“We are ridiculous,” he snorts.

“Now, now, don’t you make fun of my lovemaking.” Patroclus eyes him with satisfaction.   
“You’re the one who came all over yourself, and the bed.”

“I wonder what happens if you’re the one coming. Would it just float into the air and vanish?”

Patroclus lets out a burst of startled laughter, and rolls onto his side to face Achilles.   
“You were beautiful,” he says, suddenly serious.

Achilles flushes and looks away. “I - well, you didn’t…”

“I felt it,” Patroclus insists.   
“I might not know what I am anymore, but when we did that … I felt you.”

Achilles can’t do anything but smile up at him.


	6. Chapter 6

They’ve been like this for days. Achilles lies on the bed, and Patroclus keeps him company. It’s so different from how he’d cooped himself up in here alone, even when they don’t talk much. 

He’s somehow fallen asleep, and jerks awake, only to realize that Patroclus is still there. The other man’s hair is splayed out all over the pillow, and his eyes are closed, but Achilles knows he’s not asleep. 

“Can you even sleep?” he whispers to Patroclus. 

Patroclus gives a little hum, lips already quirking upwards.  
“I can pretend I do. Lie here long enough, and it almost feels the same.” 

Achilles slowly gets up and climbs over Patroclus. They do this on purpose; not avoiding the chance of physical contact, but instigating it. It’s like those old movies, the ones with jewel thieves and laser alarms. 

With Patroclus facing away from him, Achilles opens his nightstand and takes out the pill bottle. He grips it for a moment, watching this chain fall away from him for good. Then he smiles, goes over to the connected bathroom, and tips the entire bottle down the toilet. The sight of little green ovals disappearing down the pipes gives him endless satisfaction. 

He goes back to the bedroom to find Patroclus sitting up, cross-legged on the bed. 

“I remember where it happened,” Patroclus says, and Achilles rushes up to him.

“Do you -”

“I don’t remember everything,” Patroclus admits.   
“But I know where it was. We were underground. Under the house. We were kept there, for a few days.”

_The cellar_.

“Wait here,” Achilles says. “I know what you mean. I need to talk to my father.”

“Achilles, wait -”

“I can get us in,” Achilles insists. 

Patroclus just looks at him. “I don’t think I can, just yet.”

“Patroclus,” says Achilles. “I promise we don’t have to go, but I need to make sure we _can_. Whenever you decide.”

Patroclus hesitates, but nods, and Achilles turns to go.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The key to the cellar?” his father asks, and crosses his arms. 

“I need to go down there. You have it, don’t you?”

His father’s lip curls.   
“Whatever you think is down there, Achilles -”

He sighs, exasperated.

“Dad. I know there isn’t anything down there. Believe me, I’m not looking for a drink. I need to go down there. Everything you’ve asked, I’ve done it. Give me this one thing, please.”

“There’s a reason I keep the cellar locked up,” his father says, but his gaze has softened. 

“I’m not going to do anything untoward. I promise you. I only mean the greatest respect for … for the people who were there.”

There’s a long silence as his father contemplates this. The old man sighs. 

“I suppose you’ve been true to your word. You told me you were going to work in the garden, and you’ve done that. I … I can allow this.”   
His gaze turns sharp.   
“But when you come back, I don’t want to hear another word of it, understand?”

“I understand, dad.” 

His father nods, then goes upstairs into his room. He comes back a few minutes later with the key. 

“Thank you. You don’t know what this - really, thank you.”

His father grunts, and Achilles goes to find Patroclus.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Just wait a minute,” Patroclus says, and Achilles hears his breathing start to quicken. Patroclus has gone a little white, so he really does look like a ghost, or at least someone who’s seen one. 

“We don’t have to,” Achilles says.   
“I think we can find answers down there, but … if you can’t, I understand.”

“It’s not that,” Patroclus replies. “I just don’t think I … all this time, I haven’t recalled the truth of what happened. I don’t think I wanted to. I guess I’m afraid.”

“This isn’t just anything, Patroclus. It’s alright to be afraid. You’re facing something deep, something terrible.”

He thinks back, to Hector on the ground, his trembling fingers struggling with the telephone. He shivers. 

“Some of us never face it. Some of us … hold off for so long, that we drift away, and it’s hard to come back.”

“I think that’s what happened to me,” Patroclus gasps. 

“I think -” his face starts to crumple, and he has to take a deep breath.   
“I think I could never find rest, like my family did. Whatever happened … it violated the very heart of my home, soiled it. It was ugly, and it was …”

He pauses and looks up at Achilles.  
“I don’t want you to know what happened to me.”

Achilles stands close to him, looks into his eyes.   
“I would never think less of you, Patroclus.”

He wants so badly to take Patroclus’ face in his hands, to reassure him.

“You’re Patroclus. You like growing tomatoes and your laugh makes me want to live again. In my heart of hearts, I know that is who you are. No matter what happened. No matter what wickedness was done to you. No one can take that away.”

Patroclus lets out a breath. “I can’t do this by myself.” 

“I’m here,” Achilles says. He closes his eyes for a moment. 

“I’ll go first. And then … follow me, if you want.”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He waits until the afternoon. He doesn’t think he can handle this, in the stillness of the night. He isn’t afraid of shadows; but he _is_ afraid. Of how quiet it will be. Of no light to escape to, when he sees things he hasn’t ever thought to see. 

He struggles with the lock, the rust is so bad that the key gets stuck. He wishes his father had done something else than lock this place up. There’s too much knowledge here, hidden so long it’s become something else. The lock clatters away and hurts his hand. He yanks open the doors, shaking off ants, and pauses to stare at the darkness below. 

_Look what you’re doing, Achilles_ , he thinks. _A while ago you wouldn’t leave your room, now you’re willingly going down a dark stairwell into a place where people were murdered_.

He shines a flashlight down the stairs. It’s cold and musty, but he doesn’t expect anything else. No one has been here for years. He shudders to think that this is where Patroclus drew his last breaths. 

He tries not to imagine eyes watching him from the gloom, tries not to let the thick air of the past overwhelm him. So many _smells_. He almost chokes, and has to cover his nose with an arm. It’s a larger space than he thought. Patroclus’ whole family, down here. This place must have been ideal for storing wine, once. He tries not to glance at the corners, at dead insects, maybe even rat carcasses left behind. 

It doesn’t feel like a real place. He thinks he’s stepped into nowhere. There’s an invisible hand, gripping his insides, tightening and tightening the further he walks. He thinks he can’t breathe. How can a place that looks so ordinary feel so wrong?

He can hear something, he thinks. It might just be the wind outside. But the further in he gets, the heavier the air feels. One step more, and he freezes, eyes going wide as his skin starts to crawl. He can’t figure out if it’s his mind playing tricks, but he’s stuck. 

“Go away,” he wants to whisper, but his lips won’t move. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, the flashlight hanging from his limp fingers. There is an oddness about this place. It couldn’t be more empty, but the way the room stretches out to the farthest corners of his vision - the way his head spins … He knows what Patroclus means now, the feeling of a home being violated. 

It feels like he’s been here forever, and his knees start to tremble. Just a turn behind, a few steps, and he would be back into the light. But the hushed silence of this place - it forces him to stay here, it binds him. He takes a deep breath then, knowing if he doesn’t do it now, he will never be able to. 

He closes his eyes, imagines Patroclus in his head. The smell of outside, freshly blooming flowers, red fruit beginning to grow. The earth beneath him, how it clings to Patroclus, how it grounds him. He lets the image consume him, lets his senses flood with the sights, sounds, and smells. He needs this buoy, or he’ll be lost at sea. 

_Show me_. He doesn’t know why words will work, but it’s the only thing he can think of. The only way he’ll be allowed to see is if he accepts this. He opens his eyes, and he is no longer alone. 

_There are six of them, he thinks, but he can’t see. Some are hidden behind another wall. Half of them are already dead, he realizes, not wanting but forcing himself to look at them. Heads hanging, smiles carved into their necks. He doesn’t know how he can stand here, watching this calmly._

_He hears cries from behind the wall, a short scream, and then his hands are up, covering his ears. He knows that voice. He shuts his eyes tight, suddenly wishing he isn’t doing this._

_A low wailing._

_It goes on and on._

_He shakes, hands clamped over his ears, but the sound goes into his head._

_The people in the room are doing the same, the ones still alive. They moan at every tormented cry. This is how they’re tortured._

_Achilles zeroes in on a young girl, no more than a teenager. He knows her. Smells the moss and the graveyard dirt, sees the faded mess of her headstone. She’s alive, in front of him. She’s small, a female mirror of Patroclus. He looks away and clamps his hand over his mouth, to stop himself from crying out, from warning her._

_They can’t see him, he realizes. He isn’t really a part of the scene. He’s trapped here, a silent observer. The weeping stops, and he dares himself to venture further into the room. To look behind the wall. He hears footsteps, and jumps back, but no one comes out._

_He doesn’t think he can do this. But his feet move on their own accord, and he stills as he’s about to meet the sight he’s been so afraid of._

_‘No matter what wickedness was done, no one can take that away from you.’ Sunshine and clean laundry. A garden of tomatoes, and a laugh that makes him want to live._

_He’ll never get the sight out of his head, if he looks. He’ll never forget. He thinks he owes Patroclus something different. Owes him a memory, any memory, of who Patroclus was, who he still is. Not this. Never this._

_He covers his eyes, and retreats._  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s back in his vegetable patch. How did he get here? He blinks in the sunlight, rubbing his eyes to stop the glare. This isn’t his work. The patch is full of vegetables, healthy and abundant. There are voices behind him, he looks back at the villa and thinks he can hear people talking, laughing. The villa doesn’t look the same. It’s smaller, simpler. The roof is a different color. 

“What …” He gets up, walks around. The grounds are immaculate. Someone has been taking good care of them, not a weed in sight. He starts to panic, then. He’s lost. He tried to escape the cellar, and he’s lost. He hears voices coming nearer, and scrambles to hide behind the toolshed. A group of men and women walk past. They’re preparing for a game, softball, it looks like. He almost gasps in disbelief as he recognizes their faces. The people from the cellar. Smiles carved into their throats. 

He goes into the toolshed and sinks into a corner. Is he trapped? He stays there, trying to think of how to escape. But how does a person escape time?

Someone opens the toolshed door, and he scoots over to hide behind a pile of mulch. He waits until the light from the open doorway fades, the sound of the handle clicking shut. 

“Are you here?” a whisper, and he leaps up, nearly crying out in desperate relief when he sees who it is. 

“How are you here?” he says, and runs to Patroclus. Stops short. 

“I told you I was following behind,” Patroclus replies. He glances around. “I don’t know if people here can see us, but I don’t think we should chance it.”

“Are you …?”

“Still dead?” Patroclus gives a sad little smile.  
“Yes, I think I am. But this isn’t … this isn’t a real place. Whatever we saw in the cellar, it brought us here. I think I understand now.”

“Understand what?”

“You were right,” Patroclus admits. “About … facing this. The memory in the cellar? I think I was the only one who could stop it. It was my memory. And I’ve gone to retrieve it.”

“So you remember? All of it?” Achilles pauses, then stiffens. 

He looks down, and Patroclus is clasping his arm. Really … really _touching_ him. 

The smile on Patroclus’ face brightens more than Achilles has ever seen it. 

“Will you come with me?” Patroclus asks.

“Come ...where?”

“When we go back, I don’t know what will happen. But now … we have this. It’s ours, if you want it.”

Achilles pauses, knowledge dawning on him. He takes Patroclus’ hand, holds it against his chest, watches Patroclus grin at the feeling. They’ve done it. They’ve crossed the bridge. 

Patroclus leads him out of the toolshed, their fingers entwined. Achilles doesn’t think he ever wants to let go. They go up the stairs, to the first floor. Different, from what it looks like in his father’s house.

“Over here,” Patroclus whispers, lips close to Achilles’ ear, and this time he can feel it. Warm breath, and he doesn’t know how he ever mistook something else for this. 

They enter a bedroom, and Patroclus closes the door behind them. Achilles doesn’t have time to look around - but he can see, anyway, that this is Patroclus’ room. Well-worn books along the windowsill, beside the bed. Clean laundry, in the corner. The scent is all too familiar.

Patroclus presses up against him then, and he revels in the sensation. However much time they have here, he isn’t going to leave, not until he’s memorized every last bit of the other man. They are strangers no more.

“I’ve been wondering what you feel like,” Patroclus says, tracing his hands over Achilles’ face, running his fingers through his hair. Achilles feels his eyes fall shut at the touch. 

“I thought I could imagine it. But there’s no comparison, is there?”

He lets his hands wander over Patroclus’ body in response.   
“Patroclus,” he says. 

Patroclus looks at him, and the brightness of his eyes, the crescent of his smile; it’s all magic. Achilles doesn’t remember ever having this feeling. He catches it in the air, tucks it into a corner of his heart, to be stowed away forever. 

“Do it again,” says Patroclus, irises gleaming at the irony.

Achilles brushes the line of Patroclus’ lips, and leans forward. He keeps his eyes open, just in case. 

And then he’s met with the soft, real flesh of Patroclus’ mouth, moving against his. 

He recognizes it. They know each other. 

He feels a mending of the gaps, like meeting someone he’s missed for a long time. 

“If I’d known you then,” Patroclus murmurs, when they part. 

“You know me now.”

Achilles pulls Patroclus against him, and kisses him again, this time with a hunger he hasn’t yet encountered. He could lose himself in Patroclus, lose himself in this dream and never wake up. 

Patroclus’ arms are holding him so tight, the pressure solid and consoling. They fall onto the bed, lips refusing to part. Patroclus moves his tongue against Achilles’, slow and gentle.

“I’m yours now,” Achilles says, when they come up for air.

“What will you do?”

He sits up, and scrambles out of his clothes. Savors the sight of the cloth sliding off Patroclus’ skin when the other man does the same. He reaches out and runs his hand down Patroclus’ chest, over his stomach and thigh. Draws lines over each of Patroclus’ freckles, making constellations on his skin. He clambers onto Patroclus, straddles him. 

They close the distance between them.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’ll have to go away,” Patroclus says, voice soft. Their legs are entangled, and Achilles lies with his head on Patroclus’ chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.  
He feels Patroclus’ fingers on his scalp, feels the smoothness of his skin.

“When we go back … I don’t have a place there anymore. It will be time to go.”

They lie in comfortable silence, not denying the knowledge.

Achilles shifts up and presses his face against Patroclus’ cheek.   
“I know.”

He grips Patroclus’ hip and pulls it towards his own.  
“Again?”

He waits for Patroclus’ laugh, and then the other man starts to grind against him.  
“I would feel you forever, if I could.”  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Ready?” he asks, Patroclus’ hand in his.

Patroclus nods, and they go down the stairs together. 

Achilles thinks he’s about to black out, but before he knows it, they’re back. He can sense the change in the air. He can still feel Patroclus’ hand in his, but when he looks at the other man, it feels like he’s looking far into the distance. 

“I have an idea,” he voices, suddenly.

Patroclus raises his eyebrows.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They race out into the driveway, and Achilles is unable to quiet his laughter as he feels Nestor’s keys jangling in his pocket. He makes sure Patroclus has managed to slide into the passenger seat, and turns on the ignition. 

“Been a while since I’ve driven,” he says. “Technically, I’m still not allowed to.”

“You’ll never be allowed to, after this,” Patroclus replies, but quiets down as the car starts to move along the dirt road, until the villa behind them gets smaller and smaller. 

“One last dream before you go,” Achilles adds, slamming his foot on the gas pedal so they speed out of the town. 

Patroclus looks out the window, and back at Achilles. 

“Take care of the tomatoes for me,” he says, eyes full of tears. Afterwards, Achilles likes to think they were joyful ones.

“You know I will. You made me Lord of the Tomatoes for a reason, and I will honor it or die trying.”

Patroclus snorts. “You took that title for yourself. I was minding my own business when you swooped in and claimed the crown.”

“I’ll think of you when I make pasta sauce,” Achilles retorts, and his heart swells when he hears Patroclus’ laugh.

It’s the last thing he hears, before the sound of the wind outside takes over.

They’re past the town border, and when he turns his head again, Patroclus is gone. This time, he knows he won’t come back.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a few days later when he makes it back to the vegetable patch. He’s promised his father that he’s going to start a new one, so that the grounds are full of them. He looks at the growing seedlings in the pot, and the larger vines in their cages. He looks around for the two yellow flowers, but they’re no longer there. In their place, he sees two green fruits, the beginning of what he has worked so hard to grow.


End file.
